


Nothing Else Matters

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 06:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Who knew that you could find marital bliss with the Governor?





	Nothing Else Matters

**Author's Note:**

> In lieu of all the sadistic things that I've been writing, I decided to entertain the notion of these two actually being married while working at Wentworth still -- similar to Meg and Will Jackson. I thought that something softer would be appreciated. :)
> 
> Also, the title is dedicated to Lissie's cover of Nothing Else Matters. Check it out!

> _Trust I seek and I find in you._

Under the cover of the night, Deputy Bennett and Governor Ferguson seek solace. To avoid the controversy amongst colleagues and the inmates revering their strength as weakness, they resort to extremes. Marital bliss comes with a cost. For all intents and purposes, they choose to keep their names.

Some rules are made to be broken.

In marriage, you cannot change a facet of one's personality. You can only become a better version of yourself.

Couples scatter across the beach, reminiscent of seagulls flocking together in small groups. Walking along the shore at night, the tide ebbs out. Fragmented shells litter the shoreline. The calm cacophony of the waves lure them in. With it, the marine air sweeps in a chill.

Side by side, they embark on their march. Their hands brush against each other in an open gesture that's never quite met in full.

Time and time again, Vera catches a glimpse of that proud silhouette in the dark.

Joan wears her hair in a ponytail rather than that practical, authoritarian bun. Mindful of an ever looming threat, her dark eyes survey the night. Vera, for a change, keeps her down -- soft waves that fall in a halo, tickling her face every now and then.

Under the moonlight, there is a spot reserved for them. A towel sprawls across the cool expanse of the sand that takes on a shade of navy blue.

“Sit,” Joan commands whilst fixing the grey blanket.

Perhaps it's dedicated to the grey area between them where the lines have begun to blur.

There's not a single drop of sand on top of it.

Vera kneels first, revisiting the act of communion, her hands knotting themselves together rather uselessly.

Thus so far, Joan allows Vera the little things: the longing stares, the soft touches in privacy, the affectionate petnames that she's been so thoroughly starved of.

Inside Wenworth, life remains strictly professional.

It kills Vera, kills her in the soft and sweet way that the wedding band fits her ring finger perfectly.

Who knew that you could find marital bliss with the Governor?

Joan Ferguson conducts herself with a meticulous efficiency. She uncorks the bottle and pours the wine – Shiraz (seldom does she entertain Vera with a glass of Pinot; they bicker about this ) into the decanter. Beside the decanter, there rests a set of granyonyi stakan. Table glass, dating back to the 70's. Despite fleeing the country, it's difficult to break free from one's culture. Not a single water mark stains or soils the polished crystal.

Finally, Joan lowers herself down to the ground – not as Vera's superior, but her equal. She traces her thumb in circles over Vera's upper thigh which serves as a possessive albeit loving gesture.

Age old insecurities come bubbling to the surface.

“Where does your loyalty lie, Vera?”

The silver wedding bands pledge a union.

“Always with you, Joan,” she responds without hesitation.

Their fingers mesh together, the cool wedding bands clicking in the process.

Vera rests her head on Joan's shoulder.

Joan allows for the touch, gradually growing accustomed to Vera's need for... this foreign notion that calls itself affection.

She raises her glass to the starry veil above.

Her deputy – her _wife_ – reciprocates.

Wife.

A strange sound, but a cherished one all the same.

“To us,” she states plainly without metaphors, without riddles, without manipulations.

“Cheers,” Vera responds.

A genuine smile – all teeth – makes itself apparent.

Their glasses clink together.

The first sip of Shiraz sails smooth down Joan's throat, rough down Vera's. Together, they listen to the crash of the waves. There is little else to say with their hands laying on top of one another.

Nothing else matters.

 


End file.
